And CUT!
by Deiter Ginsberg
Summary: REPOSTED! Johnny Test is a character played by a child actor. The story follows him and his friends in the Cartoon Network studio as they shoot their shows. Much better than it sounds - seriously, GIVE IT A SHOT. Rated T for possible future slash/yaoi.
1. Chapter 1

**  
And. . . CUT!!  
Chapter 1  
**

* * *

  
"Aaaand CUT!! Great work Johnny!"

Sigh. _It's JON. Jon, you orange-skinned, Hawaiian Tshirt-wearing jerk._

'Johnny Test' pinched the space between his eyes in frustration as the walls of his 90's-era inspired livingroom began to come down. He watched as crew-hands began to grab up the cartooney furniture, shouldering what pieces they could and double-teaming the heavy stuff. He sighed into the palm pressing his eyes closed, not bothering to look up as he sidestepped an outbound couch and its two accompanying high-school dropout movers.

As the assistants began bustling to-and-fro across the concrete hangar, the overbearing contrast lights began to click off one-by-one. Bleary-eyed, he spotted Moira and Morgan at the end of the set, legs dangling over its veranda, splitting a bagel and laughing as 'Susan' and 'Mary' were neatly folded in bubble wrap and placed back in their wig boxes by still more nameless, faceless prop assistants who should have toughed it out in junior college instead of leaping at that foot-in-the-door opportunity their second-cousin in the know had offhandedly mentioned. Their long jet-black hair swished freely with each fresh peal of laughter. They looked happy.

Jon pulled up a crate and contented himself with watching the execs and caterers and producers and helots scurry about like mice, wishing against all the unbaptized babies in purgatory that today was that rare day that Lisa (his personal assistant) had been able to go those extra five minutes without a cigarette and had actually manged to lug herself off her fat, lazy ass in order to bring him his scarf and Chai latte on time. He knew that that wasn't going to happen. But a boy can dream.

He ran a finger over either cornea, expertly swiping out the frisbee-sized, ice-blue, painful-as-hell contacts he was forced to wear for eight hours a day, six days a week. He blinked the tawny-brown eyes God gave him. The gel in his hair hurt. His polyester shirt itched. His body ached.

Jonathan "Johnny" Ramsey was no stranger to grueling physical comedy. All those years of child beauty pageants, with their attendant comedy skits and dance routines, had left him taut and toned from an early age. And it was those tap dances and pies to the face he had endured in traveling from competition to competition, talent scout to talent scout, that had finally gotten him noticed. He wasn't new to painful crashes. But. . . dear LORD did "Johnny Test" have a lot of scenes featuring harsh body lands. Scenes that wouldn't cinematically accommodate the cushy touchdown of an air mattress. Scenes that smarted the day afterward. Todd (his uuber-gay, 50-something-year-old masseur) was sure to comment on the bruises and stress knots when he showed up for his appointment with him that evening.

Still, idly watching Goatee Nick and Glandular Problem Steve cart off the 'family' mini piano, he couldn't complain. Back in the Winnebago days, when they were sleeping out of that rusty deathtrap of a van whether the A/C wasn't working during the sweltering Texas heat or when the heat wouldn't work in those biting New Hampshire winters, those pageants and competitions had been what had FINALLY earned him that dream that had kept him going all those years. He was acting.

Even now, as he was being asked to scoot as they started moving the planks of the floorboards, he clutched that knowledge to himself as if embracing it in a warm hug. _He was acting_. He was _doing_ it. And just like during those cold New Hampshire Winnebago nights, shivering into the blankets and old newspapers piled a mile high over his seven-year-old frame, it kept him going. Even if it _wasn't_ exactly the role he wanted, even if it _was_ the bland, formulaic tripe of such an overwhelmingly-obnoxious degree that was "Johnny Test", it was his dream. It kept him going. It kept him warm.

Suddenly, two big, hairy arms encircled his torso from behind, pinning his arms to his side. "Hey JonJon."

Jon feigned a startled squeal, faux-flailing against the would-be attacker, only to stop moments later amid peals of tired giggling. He looked up, unintentionally scraping his on-screen, off-screen best friend's long snout with his skyscraper hair as the dog looked down on the boy, warm eyes smiling. He nipped at Jon's hair playfully with his pearly-white teeth, crackling the tip of the skyscraper with a sound like an autumn leaf being stepped upon.

"Hey Dukey."

Duke "Dukey" No Last Name Because He's a Dog let him go, giving his shoulders a rub and the tip of his button nose a nip between the foremost digits of his enormous paw. Jon chuckled and pushed him back playfully.

"Done shooting for today?"

"Yeah. . . _finally_," an exasperated sigh. "Moira kept tripping on her new labcoat. They had to hem it, and _Paulie_. . .," a definite sneer accenting the word 'Paulie', ". . .wasn't happy with any of the shots 'cause he said the camera still picked up on the hem stitches. So we had to re-shoot, like, _half the day_. Because the _"director"_ is a talentless _hack_ who couldn't direct his way out of a _cereal commercial_."

Dukey's explosive laughter rattled the boy from his angered trance and he was brought back to earth.

"How's your mom?"

The dog's laughter quickly ebbed and stopped altogether. He still smiled - still grinned that wizened, disarmingly warm, yet somewhat patronizing and greasy grin that everyone who knew him loved him for. But the laughter had definitely stopped.

"Good. Tired. But good."

Jon felt that familiar creeping in his stomach. That sinking feeling like the kind he got whenever he sat in on one of his contract negotiations. He readied to say something, only to be stopped by a brown paper package being thrust suddenly under his nose.

"Got this for you in Toronto," the lovely-yet-greasy smile said. "Figured since my flight would get in before you wrapped up for the day, I could beat Lardy Lisa to the punch."

The poor little package was snatched, squealed over, and eviscerated in a moment's notice. As the paper shavings wafted gently to the concrete floor, the boy's eyes softened.

A scarf.

A big, ugly, never-should-be-worn-in-public scarf. It was orange and green and purple, inlaid with shades of rotting-carcass brown, and was as long as JonJon was tall. It was hideous.

He loved it.

"Yeah," Dukey smirked knowingly. "I was thinking about splurging and getting you that new console everyone has. But then I thought to myself, 'Duke, does Jon have enough ugly scarves in his closet? _Really_? I mean, they take up the entire back wall of his closet, and he knits a new one on the set in between shoots each day, but couldn't he do with another--'."

His sarcasm was promptly cut off by a hug to his midsection.

The boy's angelic face had buried itself deep into his chestfur as little arms tightened like a warm vice around his waist. Dukey smiled. Exactly the effect he was hoping his gift would have.

For a while they just kind of stood there, wrapped up in eachother, irrespective of whoever in the studio might be watching as they held on to one-another for support.

Dukey smiled to himself. Yeah, that was exactly it. _Support_.

They were each-other's support. Each-other's _project_, as it were. One was always there when the other was in need. It had been like that for. . . golly, going on three years now. When one fell, the other carried. When both could walk, they walked. And when both fell, they both layed there, together. Always, together.

The brown-haired dog held on for just a fraction of a second longer. Their hugs _were_ getting longer and more frequent these days.

"Oo-kay!!" Dukey chuckled suddenly, giving the boy with the misty eyes a playful push. "You're super emotional. Clearly you haven't had your coffee. What's say we adjourn this meeting of the Fairy Princess Brigade, head back to your trailer for a latte, and agree to never speak of this moment again as long as we both shall live."

JonJon smiled from behind the ugly scarf, which he had already hastily mummy-wrapped his mouth in. "I need a shower," came the muffled voice from amid the multicolored folds.

"Want to stop by H&M first and get your makeup removed?"

"Nope."

"Want me to help you get that gunk out of your hair once we get to your trailer?"

"Yep."

"Want me to chew up Lardy Lisa's slippers for being such a lazy chain-smoking cow?"

"Yep."

And with that, a long furry arm draped around the boy's narrow shoulder and the two proceeded through the large barn doors of Studio Set 7A, "Johnny Test". Along the way they talked, they shoved, they joked. They shared some laughs.

And, in general, just held eachother up.  
**

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Author's Note:** I have no idea where I got this from. I literally sat in front of my computer, turned my brain on, and there it was. I guess I just got so fed up with Cartoon Network and their new bullshit lineup that I started applying my own depth to the series. I had it all worked out in my head: The story'd be about a child actor playing Johnny, and the entire thing would take place in an alternate universe where all the Cartoon Network characters are actors cast for their roles instead of just being drawn and animated. By my fourth Wildberry daiquiri, the idea sounded so good I figured I might as well commit it to paper. Or GoogleDocs data bytes. Whichever.

Don't know if I'm gonna make it into a full story, or just leave it as a oneshot. YOU DECIDE!! Cast your vote by leaving either a positive or a negative review!! And just like any democracy, your ballot will in no way affect the outcome of my decision, which will be based entirely off how drunk I get _next_ week!

K - PLEASE read and review. Spelling/grammatical errors, let me know. Thanx!

Deiter G.


	2. Chapter 2

**And. . . CUT!!  
Chapter 2  
**

* * *

  
The shower's familiar hiss was starting to make Dukey sleepy. Just when the combined sedating powers of the shower and the old Frasier rerun he was watching had begun to tug at his upper eyelids, JonJon came padding out of the bathroom.

"Eh? Eh?" the boy beamed, arms outstretched Evita-style.

Dukey smiled lazily from the foldout bed, interlacing his paws behind his head as he took it all in.

"Give me a three-sixty turn, Monsieur Yves Saint Laurent."

Obediently the blonde turned, rotating nimbly on the ball of his foot, showing off the season's latest acid-washed jeans and a form-hugging white turtleneck. His hair, now de-starched and toweled mostly dry, was done up in its usual short, loose ponytail, which swished and swayed in time with the boy's graceful movements. Flame-tipped blonde bangs cascaded carelessly over his cheeks. A campy, oversized turquoise and gold belt buckle glimmered in the trailers recessed lighting, looking for all the world like it had been looted off a Mayan priestesses' headdress just moments prior. A pair of Doc Martins (still in hand), a men's Chanel watch, and tiny silver hoop earrings rounded out the ensemble. The effect was, as always, rather breathtaking.

"Diggin' it?"

Dukey nodded approvingly. "Sweater makes you look fat though."

Reflexively, Jon sucked in his gut, then scowled daggers at his friend, who held up his paws to shield his smiling maw from a potential rain of blows.

"I kid, I kid! You're like, what? Ninety pounds? _Wet_, maybe? Jesus JonJon, lighten up. An extra slice of pizza tonight ain't gonna kill you."

Jon sighed, his weight shifting onto the bed. "Pizza? No. Personal trainer and wardrobe director? Yes."

Duke scritched a claw down the boy's back, having to dig in to penetrate the thick fleece. Jon smiled over his shoulder, sending a puff of air to clear an errant bang from his eyes.

"You ready?"

"Aww," Dukey moaned pitifully. "Dukey tired. Dukey just wanna stay in and order terrible Chinese food and watch terrible movies with friend. No go out to-nite."

A finger behind Dukey's ear reciprocated his earlier back scratch, and the dog's leg went into a thumping overdrive. Then a hand was on his tail and he was being forcibly dragged off the bed, amid loud protests.

"C'mon!" a sugary voice next to his ear coaxed. "You know Mattar will curl around a tub of Ben & Jerry's and cry all night if he doesn't see me. And Peter just got renewed for another season. We gotta buy him drinks."

Eyes closed, Dukey arched an eyebrow from where he had defiantly curled up on the floor. "You mean_ I _have to buy him drinks."

"Exactly."

With a swat to his rump, Dukey was up and the two were off. Dukey sighed. Yet another quiet evening alone ruined by good friends.

* * *

"Jon-ie! Welcome back, my friend!"

Jon's legs were coiled by the little purple cat/rabbit/bear thing that had pounced at them the instant they happened through the door. With an 'Oof!' he teetered, and would have fallen over had Duke not caught him in time. With an exasperated chuckle, Jon gave one of the little BearCabbit's ears a playful tug. To Jon's relief Mattar shifted his rather-cumbersome weight back onto the floor, though still bouncing on the pads of his feet like an ADHD sufferer in dire need of some Ritalin.

"Were have you _been_," came the purple boy's chirpy Iranian accent. "Peter and I have been _calling_! We call, you don't answer! We call Moira and Morgan, still no to finding you!"

"I'm on _set_, dude," Jon smiled, taking a knee and frizzing the little boy's hair. "You know I can't take calls during shoots."

Wiggling with pent-up energy, Mattar Paneer, the young actor who played "Chowder" in the show of the same name, gave JonJon his biggest, broadest smile. His sandals clicked as he rocked back and forth from heel to toe. His white thawb was already speckled with pieces of food and candy. His mother, who still insisted on doing the boy's laundry, seemed to die a little inside whenever Mattar came home wearing whole sections of whatever menu he had been ordering food from that day. Of all the kids at the network, Mattar Paneer was without a doubt the most similar to the fictional character whom he played.

A fat purple paw closed around Jon's wrist as he (and Dukey, in tow) was led over to their usual booth at the back of the restaurant. There, forming a semi-circle around the table, with Jon and Dukey's seats left auspiciously vacant for them, sat their friends Peter North, Mitch Edelstein, and Melissa Washington-Culler. Aliases Flapjack, Dexter, and Numbuh Five respectively, for those of you not sticking around for the credits at the end of your favorite shows.

"'Bout time you two showed up."

"We were about to order without you," said 'Dex' amid a face full of garlic breadsticks. Melted butter coated Mitch's mouth as he inhaled the contents of the little plastic basket like a vaccum cleaner. No one was gonna tell the freckled red-head to wipe his face. They knew he'd snarl at them if they did.

"How'd episode thirty-two treat you, _Johnny_?" Peter (Flapjack) smiled wickedly at JonJon from across the table, only to duck moments later as the newly-arrived blonde sent a crouton whizzing at his head. Melissa (Abagail, Numbuh 5) snatched the projectile out of the air without looking up from her menu. Years of physical training for her action show had left her with near superhuman reflexes that never ceased to awe the other actors in the group. Peter stuck his tongue out from behind Melissa's outstretched fist as it ground the crouton into a fine dust.

"Not bad," said the top of Jon's head - the only part of him visible as he rested his forehead against the table. "Not expecting an Emmy from it, but it was certainly better than some of the other stuff they've had me do."

"Emmys,"Mitch snorted. "Don't get me started with Emmys. Dexter's Lab." He jabbed a breadstick at the air for emphasis. "Four years of my life. Highest ratings the network has ever seen. . . and for what? An _Annie_."

"Could be worse," Peter reached for a breadstick, only to be stopped by a fork skewering the table where his hand had been only moments before. "They could make you wear blue tights and a striped tanktop. And an ascot." He shuddered. "Dear Lord it's the gayest thing I've ever had to wear. And each season they take an inch off the legs. By season eight, I'll just be wearing a banana hammock. By season ten, a thong."

"Oh c'mon Petie," said Melissa. "At least it makes your butt look cute." To illustrate, she reached under the table and pinched his rump, causing him to jump. Peter's cheeks went rosy and he glowered. Everyone laughed, save Mitch and Mattar, who had come to blows over the last of the dipping sauce.

Dukey blew a straw wrapper at Pete. It lodged in his hair. "So any news on what Season Three's gonna be like, Petey?"

Peter's face sank. His head joined JonJon's on the table. "There was talk made of skinnydipping scenes. 'Scenes'. . . as in 'more than one'."

Once again, the table erupted in laughter. They couldn't help but find an ironic humor in the young stand-up comedian's plight.

It was common knowledge to everyone at the table (even the usually oblivious Mattar) that the 'Flapjack' show had been greenlighted solely by way of positive ratings feedback from adolescent girls and effeminate, sexually-confused boys. Peter, who was easily the straightest kid for miles around, had unknowingly signed on for a role that was, even by forgiving estimations, the most rainbow-colored, flamingly fruity, out loud and proud character in the history of ever. Peter, who had attracted exec attention with tapes featuring his lewd and somewhat misogynistic comedy routine, now earned a living by dressing up in lycra tights and kissing sailors on the cheek.

Melissa was quick to note the boy's bad karma. Every chance she got.

"Could be worse," Dukey said as they dug into their newly-arrived mounds of food. "JonJon has to de-starch his hair at the end of each shoot, and I have to de-mange mine."

JonJon, never missing a chance to bash his own show, perked up. "And talk about formulaic! The show basically rips off canceled shows that were more popular than it. The character Johnny? A Johnny Bravo/Johnny Quest hybrid. Mary and Susan? Dexter knockoffs." To this, Mitch nodded. "Duke's character? A Scooby-Doo wash. The neighborhood itself? The freakin' Ed, Edd & Eddy cul-de-sac set, down to the very last detail!" JonJon held out the hand he had counted down the show's faults with, wiggling it's four well-manicured fingers for all to see. "I swear. Sometimes, I think producers these days throw a bunch of scripts into a washing machine with a gallon of bleach, set it for permanent press, and whatever comes out, they film."

"Could be worse," Melissa said over her spinach manicotti. "You could be the Black tag-along character on a show you're most qualified to play the lead role in."

She promptly bit into another forkful, clamping down on the fork's metal to keep herself from saying nasty things about that douchenozzle of a child actor who played Numbuh 1.

"Could be worse," Mitch chimed in, partially processed crepe decorating his face. "Your show could get canceled after the tabloids photograph you going barefoot into a gas station bathroom."

The group's chewing collectively paused as everyone grimaced. Everyone remembered the grainy photos that had turned up everywhere.

"Could be worse," Peter said once the wave of nausea had subsided. "Half your fanmail could come from lonely old men living out of their parents basements."

Everyone nodded, grateful that their respective mail bags came with only ten, fifteen percent pervert mail tops.

"Ooh! Ooh!" Mattar stood in his chair, eager to contribute. "Could be worse. The stage director could shock you with a cattle prod whenever you get one of your lines wrong!"

The table went deathly silent as silverware clattered to plates. Five sets of eyes, dilated in shock, turned in unison on Mattar, who sat at the edge of the table under a spotlight. Crickets chirped loudly in the background.

"W-what?" the BearCabbit blinked, looking back at them strangely. "It was just a for-instance."

Jon was the first to release the breath he had been holding, exchanging relieved glances with his friends. The actors at either side of the pudgy little boy gave his shoulders a friendly punch as Peter rolled his eyes. Dukey waggled his eyebrows at Jon, who smiled back from across the table and nudged his foot from under it.

***

Fattened, the waiters carting off their plates, the dinner group eventually wrapped for the night. They parted ways after a round of pool, which was cut short with Mattar's swallowing of the cueball.

Turning up their collars to the glancing snow, Mitch and Peter hailed a cab while Melissa held Mattar's hand under the bus awning, waving them off as she tried to keep the boy from eating the bus route pamphlets. The boys, with paws and heavy-soled shoes sinking into the icy slush, rounded on the security-lit storefronts and red-signed bistros and trudged their way home. Jon stopped twice to sign an autograph and pose for a picture - both of which, he knew, were sure to find their way onto eBay.

_You could do it tonight_, a far-off voice in someone's head came. _It's snowing. Long walk back. Perfect excuse._

"Do you think Mitch is developing a weight problem?" JonJon said, tightrope walking across one of the yellow cement stoppers running along an empty parking lot.

"Wuh?" Dukey said, the world coming back into focus. "Oh. . . no. Nah, he's fine."

"Where were _you_ just now?"

"Nowhere. Here."

Jon smiled at him from the length of cement he had just skipped to, only to teeter and step off onto the tarmac as he lost his balance. He _eep_ed when Dukey's hands went out instinctively to his sides, then chuckled as the dog flourished them away upon realizing his friend hadn't fallen.

_If you can't talk to him about it, it's going to ruin your friendship. Tonight. Get it over with tonight. _

Before they knew it, they were at the burnished aluminum door of JonJon's AirStream. They were standing outside in the down-drifting snow, shivering as it frosted their eyelashes and kinked their hair and fur.  
_  
Invite yourself. It's a work weekend. He's got nothing to do. Just invite yourself._

JonJon mounted the fold-down stairs of his camper, fingering the door open behind his back as he grinned down at a freezing Dukey. The boy's pretty brown eyes caught in the glare of an overhead stadium light, glimmering wildly. Duke was poised to say goodbye when the boy interrupted him.

"Dude, it's _freezing_. Your trailer's half a block away, and it's not like we have work in the morning. Why don't you just crash here tonight?"

Duke's heart skipped a beat. Or three. His friend gave his best Johnny Test pout, clasping his hands together against a rosy cheek. As if Dukey somehow needed persuasion.

_Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes, YES!!  
_  
"Oh," Dukey cleared his throat, nonchalant. "Eh, well. . .," he scratched the back of his neck. "I dunno. . ."

Jon intensified the pout, bottom lip trembling now. "C'maaaan! What about all those old movies we were gonna watch? I rented _Ravenous_ again. Figured we could do java shots every time we noticed when the snow on the ground was a bunch of wadded-up T-shirts, or saw a boom mike in the shot or something."

Dukey knew to say no. He knew that tonight just wasn't the night. That it was too early.

But something about the open door and the boy with the warm eyes was drawing him in.

_You're not neutered, Duke old boy. You've got balls. Now act like you got 'em._

"I. . . guess. A night of C-grade actors butchering terrible lines as they wade through poorly-written schlock wouldn't be all that bad."

Jon arched a pencil-thin eyebrow and smirked. "I wouldn't think so. _We_ make a living out of it, after all."

_God I love you._

And so, hastening from the cold, the two bedded down in their hand-stitched pajamas and watched shitty movies until the crack of dawn.

Each time one of them noticed a clap board make it's way into a scene, or saw a zipper on a bear, or caught a background extra rolling his eyes or making rude hand gestures, the other would have to do a shot of super-concentrated Hazelnut brew. By the end of the night (morning, actually) the two were too tanked to do anything except pass out.

Dukey, who was more at home with drinking games than his young friend would ever know, retained some lucidity for a while after Jon was out.

Turning off the TV, he eased his weight over the mattress. Slowly, careful not to wake him, Duke undid the boy's loose ponytail, letting his hair cascade over the pillow. Hand shaking, he combed through the long honey-colored mop as gently as his bulky paws would permit. Pausing, he traced the dull edge of a claw around the rim of the boy's ear, smiling to see little goosebumps form at the nape of his neck.

_You're going to make someone very happy one day. _Duke smiled._ Heck, you make me happy now. _

Jon was a good kid. Nuzzled down beneath the blanket, giving a yawn and scratching his stomach before curling around his pillow, he was enchanting to Dukey, who watched him with a quiet reverence. Beneath all that globbed-on makeup, he was a very pretty boy.

Dukey grimaced. _A boy_, the voice in his head spoke, switching teams. _A very young, very sweet, very trusting boy. Who needs a FRIEND._

Without intending to, he nuzzled into the boy's hair.

"I'll always be a friend, kiddo," Dukey whispered in the darkness. "No matter what else happens."

As he shifted over on his side, facing away from Jon curled up at the opposite end of the foldout, he felt a paw around in the dark. Finding Jon's hand and slipping it into his, Duke smiled a contented smile and closed his eyes, certain that the morning would find the two hands separated and the young blonde none the wiser.  
**

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Author's Note: **I am the queen of OOC. Screw it. The show could do with some much-needed subtext and depth anyway.

I don't know why I went with Dukey having a crush on Johnny. I had initially intended to work Gil into the equation, only to realize midway through the Gil chapter that I hated Gil. So, no Gil chapter.

And don't be offended. It's nearly 2010, and if you've never seen a Furry reference be made in a fanfiction, you've been living in a cave. I won't get graphic if I go anywhere with it. I think I've decided to make this a romance of some sort.

K - reviews (positive AND negative) are welcomed/encouraged. Spelling errors, please email me and let me know.

Deiter G.


	3. Chapter 3

**And. . . CUT!!  
Chapter 3**

**

* * *

**

"Okay Jinnels, can you do _that_. . . but completely different?"  
_  
I could have you killed._

"You know what I'm saying right? You catchin' what I'm tossin' ya, my man?"  
_  
Seriously. If Peter doesn't have a hitman on payroll, I _know_ Mitch does. One call. You'll be nothing but a pulpy mass lining a shallow, unmarked grave._

"Like, do THAT. . . do what you're doing. . . but at the same time DON'T do it. And _differently_."

_No, nevermind. I'm gonna kill you myself. With a claw hammer._

It was take fourteen (_fourteen!!_) of the lake monster scene. Animatronics had finally gotten the gigantic glorified garden hose to swivel and pivot in tandem with the flick-and-switch action of their little toy car remotes, and now the douchebag director was going all film school grad project on their asses. Never mind that Morgan and Moira were on the cusp of heat stroke inside their seaweed strewn turn-of-the-century diving suits, or that the briny water was causing Duke's fur to frizz like a bag of cotton balls thrown in a hot dryer. Never mind that Jon's last few takes had been delivered through ostensibly clenched teeth. No - no one was returning to the realm of dryness and sanity until JonJon performed Paulie's "do this but DON'T do it at the same time" paradox just the way the orange-skinned, rat-tailed director had half-assedly explained it to him.

The scene called for Jon to turn around and look shocked. And he'd done that. **Thirteen times. **

Even without years of finely-honed thespian ability to back you up, it's not a particularly hard scene to make.

Go ahead - turn around and look surprised. Do it. We'll wait.

. . .

There, see? It's NOT that damned nuanced. Especially when you have a realistic looking forty-foot lake monster barreling down on you from behind to give you that extra motivation. But Paulie was channeling Martin Scorsese that day, and god help them all if the fading sunlight caused them to wrap for the evening and Paulie went back to his mansion to watch Goodfellas for more pointers.

"Just do that weird baring of the teeth thing he always picks up on," Duke shivered, knee and elbow deep in the water. "You're trying to deliver subtlety to a man who couldn't pick out body language in a porno."

Obediently, when the clapper snapped shut, Jon bared his pearly whites, gaped his eyes and gave the most contrived yelp of feigned B-grade surprise that he could possibly phone in. And sure enough, Paulie was ecstatic.

"And that is a WRAP people!! Breathtaking. Absolutely breathtaking. I have chills." He held his arm up for the boom mike guy to see. "Anyone else have chills?"

"I have hypothermia," Duke chattered.

"I have heat blisters," gulped a red-faced Moira as she fanned a fainted Morgan with her helmet's glass viewing flap.

"Super!" Paulie chirped briskly, not having heard a word. "Seven in the a.m. tomorrow people! Pickin' up the magic!"

The set breathed a cumulative sigh of relief as things started to come down. Paper mache trees were toted off, inflatable logs were rolled up, and the animal trainers fought valiantly to return the imported wildlife to their cages and carriers, even as they were drilled by woodpeckers and almost fatally gored by the irascible deer. A switch was thrown and a giant pump began siphoning the lake from around their ankles, inexplicably storing it in a large vat for. . . what? Freshness? Security? So nobody would try to break in and steal a lake?

"I hate that man," JonJon said through his towel. "I really, really do."

They padded off towards the showers, tiptoeing as best they could through the briar-strewn grass even as a stagehand began to vacuum it. JonJon yelped as he snagged one of the little green spiked balls between his toes. Let it be known: When Studio 7A did props, they _did _props.

The artificial lake had been carved into the grounds of an old abandoned football field. The west-most section of concrete bleachers had been wrecking-balled out to make room for the "woods", leaving just a few hundred yards of chipped, sun-bleached concrete stairs and their adjoining bathrooms and subterranean rec room. Makeup was bunkered down in a few of the old coaches offices and the tech nerds had sequestered the rec room, leaving just the immense team showers for anyone looking to escape the elements.

"You know who Paulie reminds me of," Dukey chuckled. "You remember that kid from elementary school that always had to be the lead role in every school pageant, no matter how bad they sucked?" Dukey shook his fur dry, much to JonJon's water-splattered dismay. "The one that had to be the talking raccoon with the cautionary tale against industrial waist dumping, even though they were only qualified to play a sick tree? _He's_ that kid. He's what that kid turns into."

"I was home-schooled," said Jon tiredly as he toweled off. "But I know what you mean. And you're wrong. _I_ was that kid."

Duke nipped at JonJon's ankles as they walked. "Pishah. You had more talent at seven than most actors have now. You're great at what you do."

Tired eyes not bothering to look down, JonJon smiled and lowered a hand to the dog's head, scratching behind his ears. "You're sweet."

_See? Boys his age don't say 'You're sweet.'_

Ducking under the overhang, not bothering to pause at the floor mat to wipe their feet, they shouldered their way into the men's shower room.

To one side, barnacled showerheads dotted the walls at regular intervals, breaking up the monotony of the miles of dingy, seaweed-colored tile. A section of dented red lockers stood just beyond the showers concrete partition, the two sections buffered by a line of scuffed and graffiti-covered wooden benches. Yellow lights dangled overhead. Despite having been abandoned for years, the whole room still smelled like sweat and jock straps.

"Hey Johnny."

JonJon froze, hand on the door, watching as a blonde teen just beyond the waist-high concrete partition wrung out a sponge over his surfer boy hairdo. JonJon's eyes followed the stream of sudsy water as it broke into smaller streams and rivers and tributaries along the suntanned skin, washing and overlapping over the boy's taut chest and abs before disappearing beyond the concrete.

Jon gulped audibly.

"Well," Dukey said loudly, voice echoing over the tiles. "I think I'm actually gonna go grab a doughnut before catering packs up." He ducked as JonJon made a wild one-handed grab for his collar. "Catch you on the bus Jon."

Duke's nails clicked over the tiles as he nosed through the door, leaving JonJon alone. By himself.

With Nolan Potts.

Nolan arched a blonde eyebrow, lathering, watching the boy expectantly.

Realizing he hadn't yet moved, JonJon padded further into the room, mechanically retrieving and unpacking his bath bag.

"How'd the shoot go today?"

"Good," JonJon's voice cracked as he crossed the partition. "Never better."

As the hiss of his showerhead joined Nolan's, JonJon blinked in rapid succession. "Didn't you _not_ work today?"

Nolan gave his best Gil grin, pearly white teeth sparkling at the boy who was scrubbing vigorously, facing away from him. "The gym set on the lower floor is super bamf. Boatloads cheaper than the health club, and no fighting over the equipment. Total win."

"Oh," JonJon nodded to the wall. "Awesome."

As JonJon panicked in his head, the dual hiss of the showerheads began to kick up a fog of steam that quickly blanketed the room in white. The starch was leaving JonJon's hair in great oozing clumps, sending it drooping into his eyes. He hoped it was enough to cover his blushing.

"So - did Paulie get his lizard working?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Tech got it up and running."

Nolan smiled into the downpour, letting it catch in his mouth. "Y'know, I don't think he's gonna be satisfied until there's a robot battle at least every other episode."

JonJon, who had worked up the courage to steal a clandestine peek, took in the full sight of the boy next to him.

Dear god. He hadn't been a swimwear model for nothing.

Following the delicate lines of the boy's musculature, JonJon became aware of that weird feeling that had been creeping up on him with increasing frequency as of late. It invariably seemed to start at the base of his spine before radiating outward and filling his body with something that felt like sawdust. His mouth, usually dry, suddenly began to salivate. Blood let out of his face and hands, leaving them tingling.

Just as JonJon's vision danced along the tan line, a baby blue eye caught sight of the boy's ogling. Twinkling, it's corresponding eyebrow arched.

"Find something you like, amigo?"

JonJon's only response was to jerk his head back to the wall. Nolan chuckled good-naturedly, his shower spray fizzing to a halt.

"Welp, that's it for me. That 10K bike ride really takes it out of ya. Gonna go pick something up from Taco Bell before I hit the hay."

The teen draped a towel over his nethers, brushing his sopping wet peroxide-blonde bangs from his forehead. He slid a foot into either awaiting flipflop, not bothering to adjust his towel as it slid an inch or two down over his pubic muscle.

"Catch you later dude."

JonJon nodded, arms crossed, huddled under the fount, blushing wildly. "Later."

As Nolan went to sidestep him, a playful smirk alighted over the teen's face.

"Brohan," he leaned in, whispering in the boy's ear "I don't know how you all do things back in West Virginia, but here in Cali we don't wear pants when we shower."

In one fluid gesture, Nolan had hooked a finger under the hem of the swim trunks JonJon was wearing, eliciting a sharp yelp of surprise from the younger boy. He gave a sharp tug. An instant later, JonJon was standing naked, his trunks pooled around his ankles.

Nolan chuckled. "Alright then. Later dude."

And with that, the teen was gone.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Lawlzorz. Gill episode. That wasn't so bad.

Sorry for the late posting. School.

Spelling and grammatical errors, PLEASE CONTACT ME ABOUT IT. You have no idea how anal retentive I am with my spell check. I'll sometimes read something I've written five or six times checking for errors. I *hate* when people don't proofread their work. So if you find anything, let me know, K?

Reviews, good or bad, are welcome.


	4. Chapter 4

**  
And CUT!!  
Chapter 4**

"Drop the raygun and let my sisters go!"

Johnny clutched the tear in his shoulder, painfully bracing his laser burn against the brick wall as the sides of his shoes teetered on the ledge. His fingers, growing numb, could barely hold on to the freeze ray. Some seventeen stories below them, little colored, honking specks inched along a thin ribbon of cracked tarmac. He just knew that at any moment, a harsh gust of frigid night air would blow him off, and those little honking dots would rush up to meet him with a vengeance.

"Oh _Johnny_," Johnny's doppelganger purred, distinguishable from the real Johnny by only a neatly-trimmed goatee and a laser gun the size of his arm. "I think not. That fat dupe bedecked in bullion promised me a not-inconsiderable sum for your lovely sisters. And I mean to deliver." Gripping a windowsill, he leveled the raygun on Johnny's sisters, bound and gagged on the ledge behind him.

The dingy yellow light from the window threw the clone's face in sharp contrasts, giving his sneering grin and menacing eyes the appearance of a jack-o-lantern.

"You'll never get away with this," Johnny winced, the numbness in his shoulder causing him to drop the freeze ray's barrel a few inches. "There's no way that my family, my friends. . . Dukey. . . won't know you're an impostor!"

Nega-Johnny cackled maniacally. "Fool! While Johnny X was flying around the city with his precious Captain Pork Man, I was living _your_ life with _your_ loved ones. I brag not when I say, they were none the wiser."

"Even with the goatee?"

"What?"

"Dude," the real Johnny blinked. "You have, like, an old-timey bad guy goatee. I'm _eleven_. Please tell me _somebody_ in my family picked up on that."

Evil Johnny paused, curling his gun hand against his hip as he tweedled his mustache, thinking. "Mn. . . no, actually. Looking back, it was a pretty seamless transition."

"Nobody even mentioned it? In passing, even?"

"No. Not once, no."

"But your British accent," Johnny whined, wobbling momentarily on the ledge, catching himself just in time. "Please tell me at least Dukey noticed I was speaking like a cockney."

Nega-Johnny's eyes seemed to chase recollections of the day through the past. More mustache stroking. After a while, he clicked his teeth. "Sorry mate. I'd tell you yes, but I'd just be making you feel better." He shrugged. "They're a remarkably dense lot."

Johnny did a facepalm. "Yeah. Yeah they are."

Just then, an unmanned gold and rhinestone-encrusted helicopter appeared over the skyline, whipping up violent gusts of wind as it lowered a metal claw from a port in its underbelly. Nega-Johnny snapped out of his conversation-induced stupor, leveling his raygun on the real Johnny as the claw clamped shut around Susan and Mary's midsection.

"I'm afraid that's my ride, old boy," the doppelganger called over the noise. "And I'm afraid that with your beloved Captain Pork Man incapacitated, there'll be no pursuing us this time!"

The claw began to draw them up, and Nega-Johnny hopped on. The wind sent Johnny's freeze ray clattering over the side. He dug his nails into the brick wall, eyes squinted and watering, trying as best as he could to hold on.

"Oh, and Johnny," the doppelganger called out again, turning back. "I found myself pondering this during our exhilarating chase through Porkbelly."

An evil light danced in his cold blue eyes.

"I couldn't help but wonder. . . whether or not the great Johnny X can fly without his mangy mutt mount!"

With a sneer, the doppelganger leveled a shot at the concrete walkway beneath Johnny's feet.

With a blinding flash and a spray of sparks, the concrete splintered and buckled, giving way. Johnny suddenly found himself falling, plummeting like a lead weight set free from a plane. Frigid wind ripped at his clothes as he was lost in the rain of chipped brick and cement, falling head over heels. His eyes caught one last sight of the helicopter making it's ascent as the spiraling blur of honking cars and black asphalt rushed up to meet him.

He gave one final, ear-splitting scream right before he was to hit the ground.

"Crane shot on impact with bag, aaand. . . CUT!!"

_Oof._

Instead of cracked asphalt and commuter traffic, a giant foam mattress caught his fall.

Touching down with a loud thud, JonJon settled deep into it's lime-green folds. He did a personal, unmoving inventory of all his limbs and digits. They felt there.

"Jon-baby," Crewhand Steve rushed over to the bag. "Talk to me. Say something."

"Hrothmagdooooollhhphnn."

"You. . . you want a dolphin?"

A well-manicured hand reached up through the bag's folds, swatting Crewhand Steve away. Satisfied, he left, barking orders into a little walkie-talkie for someone to get some dolphins on the way over, pronto. The last Jon could make out, they were negotiating the cost difference between porpoises and bottle-noses.

"Hey J.J.?" a familiar voice from somewhere above and to the left of the bag cooed. "Are you paralyzed? Dead? Did your hair break your fall?"

JonJon lifted a flap part of the way off his face, exposing his mouth, which was still breathing rather coarsely. "Shoulder, mostly. Head and shoulders."

He giggled childishly. "Like the shampoo."

He felt the landing mattress shift all around him, it's coarse, slightly sticky old surface jostling about as something crawled over it's vast green expanse. He felt paws feeling around for him, finding him moments later. The folds parted, letting in light from around a furry silhouette.

"Body check. Are all your limbs intact ma'am?"

JonJon moaned as he curled on his side, batting his good eye. "Why don't you check," he purred playfully.

Duke tried to not let his face register surprise, but from JonJon's impish smirk he could tell it had at least reflected in his eyes. Not wanting to seem unnerved, he plastered on his best Dukey grin and traced his claws along the boy's sides, eliciting excited yelps.

"N-no! NO!!" JonJon wiggled frantically. "No, HELP!! Please!! S-stop!"

JonJon giggled wildly under his touch, kicking and flailing about as the dog's hefty paws menaced his stomach and armpits. Duke pinned the boy's legs to the mattress with his rump, effectively straddling him, big bushy tail swishing behind them as his fingers pummeled the boy's little nervous system.

Just as JonJon had gone beet red with asphyxiated laughter, Dukey pulled his paws away, smiling as he watched the boy ride out the last of his excited spasms beneath him. All around them the set was coming down. Neither particularly noticed.

For a time they remained as they were, with Dukey being the first to realize how awkward they were positioned. He smiled amicably, making a move to get up.

As he did, two little hands snatched his paws out of the air, giving them a sharp tug. Duke lost his balance, feet slipping on the stain-proof surface as he came crashing down.

Blinking, he realized his nose was literally an inch away from JonJon's.

JonJon beamed up at him mischievously. Duke felt the little hands encircle his back, their tiny fingers interlacing just beneath his ribcage as the added weight caused them to sink further into the padded surface.

Duke had lost all discernment for the expression his face was wearing. He knew it had to be somewhere between shock and awe and blind terror, but where exactly he couldn't be sure. His paws were on either side of the boy's shoulders. There was so much body contact going on, it felt like his senses were close to shorting out. They were literally sharing breath.

Without warning, JonJon brushed his nose against Duke's, the two tips rubbing together momentarily. The boy settled back into the pad, watching expectantly.

Some noise or another escaped the dog's mouth, but Duke couldn't be sure what it was.

"So where we going to eat?" JonJon said after a while. He watched his canine friend through the narrow slits of his eyelids, his smile now more warm than playful. "I got the munchies."

Wordlessly Duke shifted off from on top of him, staring blankly as Jon dusted his rear and hopped off the mat. He sidestepped an outbound prop and its two accompanying crewhands as he draped a scarf around his slender neck. Turning, noticing Duke still hadn't moved, JonJon smiled and arched him an eyebrow.

"Dude, you _coming_? JonJon gots the munchies." He rubbed his shoulder, wincing. "And he has to get an IcyHot pack on this rotator cuff before he's permanently scarred for life."

With that, JonJon padded off towards the door, taking out his contacts as he went.

Duke blinked for the first time in ages, mouth ajar, sliding off the mat as quiet as a mouse. His feet touched the cold concrete, legs barely able to support his weight from being so wobbly. For the longest time, he just watched the boy go.

Slowly, he brought a finger up and touched the tip of his snout. It, like the rest of his face, was searing hot.

* * *

Author's Note: I am getting zero feedback on this story, so I don't really know how it's going. SPEAK, o literate masses! What do you want to see? _Who_ do you want to see?? And in what capacity? Serious, I never have a set direction for any of my fics. If there's something you want to see, tell me and I can maybe make it happen.

PLEASE read and review. Any spelling/grammatical errors, LET ME KNOW.

Deiter G.


	5. Chapter 5

**And. . . CUT!  
Chapter 5  
**  
"Thanks a bunch for helping me with my lines Johnny."

JonJon felt an eye muscle twitch violently, fluttering his eyelid. "With the condition that you _never_ call me that again... you're welcome."

Nolan chuckled, settling into the seat across from JonJon, who was nervously working his knuckles on his knees. JonJon had glanced up when the older boy came in, taking the lemonade he offered in both hands and sipping it quietly as he watched the hustle and bustle on the set outside. Beyond the camper's half-drawn blinds, he could see the lighting scaffolds beginning to come down for the evening. Off in the distance, someone was angrily barking orders. A crewhand carrying a long girder took a shortcut through the gravel lane running between Nolan's airstream and the airstream in front of it, not bothering to glance up through the window at them as he went.

As Nolan rifled through the script they were about to read, JonJon was trying hard not to notice the smell of sun tan lotion rising off of him. Nolan smelled deliciously like the beach. He always did.

"So," Nolan said idly, flipping through the pages. "How was the special?"

JonJon shook his head, blinking himself back to reality. "Oh... _yeah_. Super. Um... we got another producer that I really like. He's really funny. And he can't stand Paulie any more than we do."

Nolan chuckled, shaking his head and flashing JonJon that million-dollar smile of his. He stuck out his big toe, nudging Jon playfully on the knee. "Lay off Paulie dude. He sucks, but he's not half as bad as some of the fashion directors I've worked with."

Nolan stretched luxuriously across the plush recliner. His shirt was most of the way unbuttoned, and the lines of his chest were peeking out between the two silk flaps. "This one time, I was doing this photo shoot for a water park, right? I think this was in Denver or something. It's been a while." He took a long swig of lemonade. "Anyways, the commercial's whole thing was, not just little kids come to the water park. It's a cool place for teens and tweens come and just hang out. I was, like, your age at the time, and had just started modeling."

JonJon tried really hard not to imagine a his-age Nolan.

He strained to not imagine his-age Nolan in a skimpy swimsuit, smelling like sun tan lotion and the beach.

". . .they've got me oiled up and in these super-tight swimming trunks. . ."

_God DAMMIT. . ._

". . . and told us to be out at the park by eight. No big deal, right? I'm in east Cali when my agent contacts me, so I'm like whatever. But this is _Denver. _The park isn't even open to the public in August, because the water for the slides freezes in the pipes. When I get there, it's just me and the five other "happenin' teens and tweens" standing around, shivering our asses off."

Jon could see it clear as day. A young, bronzed, svelt 11-year-old Nolan standing around in a vacant and waterless water park, clutching his arms to his chest. His legs buckled together, teeth chattering. JonJon felt an overwhelming urge to climb into his mind's eye and warm the boy up. Thinking this, his cheeks flushed with color.

"That's not _even _the worst part," Nolan grinned, waving his arms as if to vanquish the very notion of that having been the worst part. "The director gets there late. I'm huddled together with this older boy and girl for warmth, sandwiched between them."

JonJon made an audible noise attempting to fight down the thought of Nolan pinned between two teen models. He could feel his legs turning to noodles. Had he not been sitting down he may very well have toppled over.

"He gets there, and the shoot must go on. So for the shoot, we're trying to look like we're having fun, right? They somehow managed to get the water turned on, and it's _cold as hell. _In between shots, we're sprinting over to the hot towel lady like she'd just found a cure for a deadly disease we all had. The day's wrapping up, and this director wants a shot of all of us lounging in this big-ass jacuzzi." Nolan leaned in for dramatic effect, his voice scarcely above a whisper. "In _Denver_. In _August_. In _sub-zero weather_."

Nolan shook his head, pinching his brow as he chuckled. "I swear, when the pictures came back, the boy I was huddling with looked like he was developing frostbite on his nose. The girl I was with, her nipples were so erect that you could see them from space. In the shot, I was standing and passing everyone drinks. Remember, I'm wearing these skin-tight swim trunks, right? I _swear to you_, I was so shriveled from the cold, I looked like a eunuch."

Nolan guffawed loudly, bowing over and clutching his sides as invisible fingers seemed to tickle him. For his part, JonJon forced a weak laugh, the back of his neck wet with perspiration. He wasn't even trying to resist the mental images anymore. They had burst through like a deluge through a broken dam, rapidly flooding his conscious mind until he was drowning in unwanted imagery.

"Wait wait wait," Nolan gasped for breath between giggles. "I think I still got the picture. Hold on."  
_  
No. No no no no no no. Not the picture. Please don't have the picture. Please don't go get the picture._

But Nolan was up and out of the room in a flash, disappearing into a bedroom down the hall. JonJon could no longer see him, but a volley of comic books, sports gear, shoes and wadded up jeans went flying beyond the door frame as Nolan made short work of dismantling his closet.

"Found it!"

"GREAT!" JonJon called back, very close to crying.

Nolan padded back in, clutching the picture to his chest, beaming. He passed it off, picture-side down, to JonJon who tried to steady his hands as he flipped it over.

Just as JonJon had expected, his-age Nolan was gorgeous.

The other five kids in the picture seemed to blur into nothingness, dissolved by the blinding glare of the hotness that was eleven-year-old Nolan Potts. He had the same trendy haircut, though longer in the front, with bangs falling down over his big pretty eyes. He stood maybe a head taller than JonJon was now, and had an amazing figure for an 11-year-old. Free to view as he pleased, JonJon made short, eager work of tracing the line of muscle running from the boy's abs down to his waistband. His shorts must have been riding down because the thinnest, most incidental line of untanned skin separated his shorts from an otherwise completely bronzed, glistening physique.

JonJon swallowed audibly. Everything was the same, except smaller. More compact. More... cute.

"Heheheh," Nolan chuckled from his seat on the armrest, causing JonJon to jump in surprise. "You're, uuh. . . crinkling my picture there, mi amigo."

JonJon gasped. Noticing for the first time, he relinquished his iron-clad grip on the picture. It's edges were caved in from the imprints of his thumbs. One of the girls' faces was smudged beyond all recognition.

"I am so, SO sorry," JonJon said as Nolan slipped the picture out from between the boy's fingers. "I was... I guess I..."

Nolan waved him off with a broad grin. "S'not a problem, hombre. It's an old one from my portfolio. I can always get my agent to fax me over another copy."

Nolan set the picture aside, luxuriating across the chair's armrest. "And besides... I think I pretty much got what I was looking for."

"What you were... looking for?"

JonJon froze to feel fingers alighting over the side of his face. "Mm-hmm."

JonJon shivered as Nolan gently brushed the bangs out of his eyes. JonJon's breath hitched loudly as he felt long fingers sliding down his cheek to cradle his chin. His face was being tilted back; eyes wide, he found Nolan's face mere inches away from his.

The teenager smiled down at him, eyes warm and knowing. "It's not easy being different at eleven. Is it?"

Nolan leaned in. Before JonJon knew what was happening, he felt the boy's lips pressing into his.

* * *

Author's Note: Lady Liberty's got balls.

Alright... super fun democracy time ya'll. On my profile (I think that's where it goes) I'm going to post a poll. It's going to be for whether or not you want to see Nolan and JonJon get it on.

I'm going the extra mile to be courteous because, in my many years on this site, I've become aware that sex scenes aren't universally appreciated by all readers. Some people are just as fine with innuendo or overt implications, and can actually be turned off by a sex scene. And to a very real extent, I understand the reasoning behind that. Not everything requires anal penetration. I learned that in culinary school.

So, for those of you who actually tolerate my stories, I'll give you a choice. Do you wanna see delicious yiff between a teen model and a shota? Or should I leave it at PG-13 levels? VOTE NOWZ!

Rocking deviancy like a hurricane,

Deiter G.


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